Moonlight Whispers
by KristieConspiracy
Summary: Series of Blaise/Luna song fics, each for a different song provided by Lamia of the Dark on HPFC. 1: 'White Room' by Cream.


**Challenge: **Lamia of the Dark's _Musical Pairings _on HPFC; CUtopia's _May the Odds Always Be In Your Favour Competition _on HPFC.

**Characters: **Blaise Zabini, Luna Lovegood

**Prompts: ****B**laise/Luna, _White Room_ by Cream; **10. B**roken, 18. Write about someone savouring a moment, 24. Dauntless, 25. Luna Lovegood, 34. Smile.

**Word count: **1,423

**A/N: **I realise now that this song should produce something a lot more bittersweet than this. Too late now, I already wrote it and I like it like this, thank you very much.

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><p><em>I'll wait in the queue when the trains come back;<br>__Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves_

**_White Room _**_- Cream_

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><p>White rooms accented with black fixtures reminded her of happier times.<p>

White rooms reminded her of meetings deep in shadows, secret consults in rooms that had never seen sunlight. White rooms carried recollections of promises whispered in heated instants of passion, words lisped in her ear and never to anyone else. They never would be; he had been shy back then, and ashamed of imperfections only he could see. The frozen prince who lent his attention to the rest of the world was not his true self, which hid a less intense, more sensitive being, one with an endearing lisp when he spoke too quickly. She heard the error, though, and as always, she perceived the truth. To her, it was beauty, not something broken. It was the start of happiness.

But white rooms were the halls of Malfoy Manor as well, the place she had vanished into in her sixth year. The halls would attempt to drain her of her soul and quiet her mind, but they would not succeed. She hadn't known that at the time, though, and he had been even less aware. She had been very careful to cut him off from her when the world fell apart, even before they locked her away, because it kept him safe; safe from a regime that tore up 'blood traitors' like her, ripped out the flaws of society the same way one would tear off a bandaid.

But the Manors' walls had been hidden behind thick layers of dirt and grime, dust scraping together to form filth centimetres thick, so that they looked greenish-grey. She didn't recognise the purity of the white until much later, when she'd drawn everything she could have on the wall, and across the floor around her. But more often than not, the pictures ended up being _him_, and she'd scoff at her dangerous sentiment before wiping the pictures away with a wistful smile. She couldn't afford to draw him in the grime where a Death Eater might see. She wouldn't allow him to be subjected to that.

Time would reveal the obscenities of reality later, after her friends, her heroes, came to her rescue. She broke every rule assigned to her when she disappeared with the loudest _crack_ in the night, leaving a house elfs' grave unattended. At the time, she didn't even approach him - she wouldn't dare risk being caught and getting him into trouble. Because she knew she'd break if she was caught again. She wouldn't delude herself otherwise.

So she watched the castle from the edge of the dark forest, among shadows that chased each other in circles around white trunks painted ink black in the gloom. The knowledge that he was up there, safe in bed, protected by his green tie and a snake on his shirt, soothed her exhausted mind.

When she left that night, she couldn't recall ever being more at peace with herself, not since she had been a child playing at happiness. When she awoke the next morning, the pristine white parchment she'd been gifted with was filled with pictures of _him_.

And for the first time in a long time, she thought that maybe that was okay.

* * *

><p>White rooms accented with black fixtures reminded him of better times.<p>

He'd never intended for her to know about the lisp, but he had slipped up mid-party. It was never intentional, and no one else had seemed to have noticed. All eyes had been on the Gryffindor golden boy and the Professor who adored him, despite the fact that it was he who had been asked the question. The only eyes to gaze upon him then were hers; her wide, grey eyes, which he thought must be so wide out of surprise or alarm, were hypnotic in their intensity. Or maybe he was ensnared by someone being interested in _him_.

In a white room accented with black fixtures years later, the event that started their relationship repeated itself. A memorial 'for the lost', the Ministry called it. A party for the_ living_, to everyone else. A chance to coax recluses out of their hiding places, to tempt highly successful formerly 'villainous' characters like the perfect Draco Malfoy to interact with the saviours of their past and present, like the dauntless Hermione Granger.

A Minister too lonely to be healthy had drawn together a small group of followers, heroes and villains alike in a circle excluding all else. _So_, Shacklebolt asked the group, _who has achieved what they thought they would all those years ago?_

The purpose of the event was to show who had moved on, but wide eyes betrayed all secrets. _Her_ wide eyes, specifically, gave it all away with a gaze he'd never expected to meet again, not in the waking world. His dreams were a different matter, so he pinched himself accordingly; the muggle trick had been one of many passed on by his favourite step-father, before he had passed away.

_Are you alright, Blaise Zabini? You seem to have a Wrackspurt._

_Just the one? _Had he known, then, what she had risked for his sake, he might not have been so deliberately cynical. But the mask was not to last; it would wane in seconds.

_Well. Maybe more like an infestation._

He smiled, the same smile he'd reserved for his memories of her. She was the only person able to tempt him to reveal himself so readily. _I've missed you, Luna._

_I'm not the reason you've been away._

_No, _he had agreed, _but I would like for you to stay._

_Blaise Zabini,_ she inclined her head in what he thought of as a demure act, but was really nothing more than one of the things that made her so completely _herself_, _I think I would like that very much._

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><p>White rooms accented with black fixtures made up their home.<p>

He never thought he'd want children of his own, but she seemed to want a brood, and more than anything, he wanted her to be happy. He bought her the house as a gift when he proposed, because her father wished to keep their dark old rook and dirigible plumbs. It had been the eccentric old mans' distracted suggestion that sparked the idea in him: convert a church for the old mans' 'angel' to create a paradise in.

The muggle church was beautiful, a haven, but it was in poor repair. With a little bit of magic and a lot of convincing Ministry officials, he had the place rendered unplottable and perfect. He fixed it up himself, but not before he showed her exactly what he was doing. The place was for her, and so what if she wanted to add another storey, to turn the steeple into a tower, to charm the windows to let in more light than he'd ever seen in a room other than the Great Hall back at Hogwarts? What mattered was that she was beautiful.

If there were no shadows to darken the memory of her quiet admission of her condition, then all the better for the couple. Black-framed windows set into pristine white walls hid everything from the muggles who saw only an echo of an age long since passed, and he was torn between laughter and relieved tears. He'd thought the worst, when she had said she'd visited her friend the healer.

He thought the best when she told him they would need to visit the Markets to find a crib beautiful enough for their child.

* * *

><p>White rooms accented with black fixtures reminded them of their beginning.<p>

Whispers in the dark made for excellent stories before bed, as they discovered years into forever and always. Golden rings caressed their fingers, promises made sooner than those of anyone else. They wanted each other, as it were, and now that he had her within his reach again, he refused to let her go.

Theirs was never as much of a media temptation as those of her friends, and never the torrid affairs that most of his colleagues' became entwined with. Theirs was a curiosity built on loyalty and trust, on promises and love. Theirs was a fairy tale, a story to enchant children and to inspire artists.

_Ours_, she said one day_, was a dream come true._

_You_, he told her_, deserve_ _the best thing you can have_.

She smiled, and she kissed him. _That's you_, she beamed. _You are the best thing in my life. You and our children._

_Good_, he grinned, and kissed her again.


End file.
